Three
by x19Narya90x
Summary: As children, Filwyn, Haddan and Leofwyne of Rohan barely spent a moment apart - but as they grow up and the War of the Ring approaches, what will become of their friendship?
1. Introduction

Rheda, the widow of Tamar, did not die a beautiful death.

When her contractions started, her baby had not turned in the womb. The midwife and her assistants righted that soon enough in spite of her screams, but then came the blood – so much of it, spewing from between her thighs and running in warm rivulets over her flesh to soak the earthen floor. One of the assistants was forced to leave the house and vomit. The midwife couldn't blame her; this was the worst birthing she'd attended in years.

From noon until dusk they waited with Rheda, but the child only grew more stubborn and the mother steadily weakened. At sunset, the midwife instructed her assistants to go about the house opening and closing cupboard doors, locking and unlocking chests and tying and untying knots in their gowns. A few of them looked askance at her but nontheless did as she asked – these old customs, intended to assist the opening of the womb, had long been considered outdated, but it was clear to all that Rheda was fading fast. Her screams had dwindled to mere moans, soft and pitiful; salted tracks on her cheeks marked the course of tears that had hours since ceased to flow.

Night fell. The heat of the room was sweltering. The midwife's woollen gown itched at her underarms, and when she shifted she felt dampness there. One of her assistants yawned and received a sharp word of remonstrance – and then suddenly Rheda screamed again.

"_Skita!_" cursed one of the assistants as the girl bucked in pain. "It moves!"

"Aye, and so should you, if you know what's good for you!" snapped the midwife. "Look to your duties; ready the hot water and salt!" She knelt down in front of Rheda, who was now emitting panicked gasps. "Hush, now, child," she crooned, bracing weakened legs against her own body. "Not long to go. You hold on, now, there's a good girl." And so on, soothing nonsense that meant nothing, for she knew that Rheda's chances of making it through this birth alive were slim. Too much blood had already been lost, and more would follow when the baby arrived. Keeping up her chatter, she carefully slipped her arm inside the girl and felt inside the silken wetness for the infant's head.

"How does it go?" asked the anxious assistant supporting Rheda's head.

The midwife shook her head, her face creased in concentration – then touched what she had been seeking and smiled. She withdrew her arm and took the girl's hand. "Rheda?"

Rheda's eyes flickered open and struggled to focus.

"Rheda, I can feel your child. It is almost here, but you must help it."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Try, Rheda. Push."

So she groaned and struggled, and little by little the child moved – and then with a final shriek from Rheda, a tiny girl rushed out into the midwife's waiting hands. Deftly she cleared the child's mouth of mucus and heard it utter its first rasping breath, a sound that never ceased to fill her with joy, then tied and cut the umbilical cord.

"Your daughter, Rheda," she said, holding the child to the young woman's face – but Rheda was too far gone to see or care. Blood and slime still poured from within her, and her face was pale and clammy.

"Oh, _skita_," she murmured. "Oh, _skita,_ how it hurts." Then – "Tamar!" And her face contorted into a gruesome rictus and her body spasmed, and then she was still.

*

In silence the midwife and her older assistants performed the traditional birthing rituals on the child – the bathing of the lips and throat in hot water to ensure the infant would grow up to speak properly, and the dribbling of honey on the palate, to encourage appetite. The younger girls she had sent outside, wishing none of them to see the terrible look on Rheda's dead face.

"It's an ugly little thing," one of the women commented, examining the baby. "Scrawny."

"Maybe, but I know someone who'll cherish it nontheless," replied the midwife with a ghost of a smile.

It was late, so once they had done all they could for Rheda the midwife encouraged her assistants to go home to their families. She had a visit to make, and she wished to go alone.

*

Berthe was putting her son Haddan to bed when she heard the knock on her door.

"Just a moment!" she called, and turned back to the young boy snuggled on the pallet beside her. "Goodnight, my love," she murmured, kissed his tousled curls, and got to her feet. "Now, try to go to sleep."

When she opened the door and saw the midwife cradling a mewling white bundle in her arms, her heart leapt – but no, it couldn't be.

"Good evening, Berthe," smiled the midwife.

"And the same to you, Udela. What brings you here at this hour?"

"Do you not remember my promise?"

Berthe felt her throat tighten in anticipation, but did not yet allow herself to give in to delight. The last few days had brought so much grief that she hardly dared hope for a respite. "Of course, I-"

"And I take it you're still producing milk?"

"Yes..."

"Then all is well," said Udela, and held out Rheda's child. "Here. A perfect baby girl. Her mother died giving birth to her."

Breathless with joy, Berthe took the infant, holding her as carefully as if she had been made of glass. "And the father?"

"Killed on patrol by orcs."

"Does she have a name?"

Udela shook her head. "There was no time to name her – the mother barely lived to bring her into the world." She gave an involuntary shiver as she recalled Rheda's death mask. "I must go, Berthe – am I right in thinking you'll take her?

It couldn't be true, thought Berthe, gazing at the infant. "Yes – yes."

"Good. I'll be back in a day or two to make sure nothing is wrong."

"Udela?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," Berthe whispered.

* * *

A/N: "Skita" is Old Norse for "shit"; Tolkien used Old English to represent Rohirric in his work, as he used modern English to represent Westron. The Old English word for "shit" is actually "scitte," which would be a derivative of "skita," but I took the liberty of deciding that "skita" sounded better in context.


	2. Smile

"I don't like it," Haddan announced, eyeing his new foster-sister as she slept in Berthe's arms.

"Her, please, Haddan – not it," scolded his mother. "And you cannot possible know you don't like her; she's only been here a few days."

"Then how do _you_ know that you like her?"

"Oh, hush, son."

"But it isn't fair, Mother," Haddan persisted, pouting. " I liked Halred. I wanted a little brother, not a stupid girl."

Tears pricked Berthe's eyelids at the mention of the baby son she had so recently lost, but she blinked them back. "Halred was too good for us, Had. Nature took him back. Sometimes...sometimes that happens." She swallowed. "We should be grateful that we have Filwyn with us instead."

"Well, I'm not. I don't like Filwyn..."

"Enough, Haddan!" she snapped.

At the sound of Berthe's raised voice, baby Filwyn stirred and began to cry.

"See what you've done now?" Berthe admonished. "Just as I'd got her off to sleep..."

Haddan dropped his eyes and muttered a sullen apology.

"Yes, you will be sorry if you keep behaving like this...oh, now what?" she exclaimed in frustration as someone rapped at the door. Filwyn's wails swelled into screams. "Answer it, Haddan – with any luck it will be Leofwyne come to keep you out of mischief."

However, it was the midwife, Udela.

"Hello, my dear!" she smiled at Haddan as he peered round the door. "May I come in? I'm here to make sure all is well with your new sister."

"I'll only let you in if you promise to take her back," he scowled.

"Oh, Haddan, really!" rebuked Berthe as she rocked Filwyn. "Stop your wickedness and let Udela in this moment!"

Reluctantly he pulled the door open wide enough to admit the midwife.

"I'm sorry about him, Udela," said Berthe. "He's found all of this rather difficult, losing his father and then Halred in quick succession..."

"Don't apologise, Berthe." Udela regarded the boy with some concern. "Do you not like your sister, Haddan?"

He shook his head. "She's ugly and she cries all the time," he gabbled before Berthe had a chance to say anything. As if on cue, Filwyn let out a particularly ear-splitting shriek. "See?"

The corners of Udela's mouth twitched. "All babes cry, you know."

"Not Halred." His voice caught in his throat. "He never cried at all."

"Ah." Udela glanced at Berthe, whose face tightened. "That was different," she said in a lower voice, crouching next to Haddan. "Halred was sick – he didn't have the strength for it."

Haddan glowered at his mother holding the baby. "She's still ugly."

Udela chuckled. "It's a rare babe that's pretty at this age. Do you wish to know a secret?"

He nodded.

"Prince Theodred looked like a turnip when he was born," she whispered conspiratorially.

The boy let out a nervous giggle.

"It's true enough – his own father would say the same. But my, what a handsome young man he's turning out to be! Give it a few years, and your little Filwyn will like as not be as pretty a maid as any in Edoras."

Haddan smiled briefly, then his face clouded again. "But I can't play with a girl!"

"Stuff and nonsense," retorted the midwife, getting to her feet. "That's the silliest thing I've heard you say so far. Now, I need to have a few words with your Mother – perhaps you could mind Filwyn for us while we talk?"

Both mother and son looked doubtful at this prospect, but Udela was already lifting a still-screaming Filwyn from Berthe's arms.

"Sit down on the floor, Haddan," Udela instructed. "Good. The important thing is not to let her head lag; keep it resting in the crook of your arm, and hold her firmly but not tightly. Ready?"

"Ye-es," he wavered.

"Don't drop her, Had," said his mother anxiously as Udela lowered Filwyn into his arms.

"Oh, he won't," said Udela, straightening. "There, you see – she likes you, even if you don't like her!"

For Filwyn's screams had quieted to snuffles and snorts.

"She sounds like a piglet," Haddan observed dubiously.

"And so did you at that age, my boy," Udela smiled, then turned to talk to Berthe.

"Are you sure they'll be alright like that?" Haddan heard his mother whisper.

"Quite sure. Don't you worry – it isn't unusual for older siblings to take a dislike to a new child, but I often find that once they feel involved with the baby, they come around quickly enough..."

He stopped listening, his eyes travelling in uncertain fascination over the tiny thing he held in his arms. He didn't understand why his elders cooed so over babies - Filwyn was pink, skinny and wrinkly, with flaky skin on her scalp and dribble down her chin. With his free hand he carefully stroked her arms, squashy, flabby protrusions from her oddly rounded body. He poked at her belly and was surprised to find it quite hard. He prodded again, but Filwyn shifted and grunted, and he hastily withdrew his finger in case his Mother turned around and saw what he was doing. Instead he examined her hands, perfect miniatures of his own, balled into tiny fists. Gently he prised her fingers away from the palm of one hand to get a better look at her nails, and was surprised to feel her curl them back around his own index finger. He eased it free – then out of sheer curiosity slipped it back again, and was pleased to find that she gripped it once more. Filwyn gurgled her pleasure at this new game, and this time the sound reminded him less of a piglet. _More like water in a stream, really_, he thought to himself. Yes, that was it – a shallow stream bubbling over the stones that lined its bed. He stroked his finger back up her arm, marvelling at the butter-soft skin.

A slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps the midwife was right. Perhaps babies, even baby girls, weren't quite so bad after all.


End file.
